


Routine Hatred

by WaitAThousandYears



Category: South Park
Genre: Gangland, Gen, Let's get really drunk, Oscar Wilde quotes, Other, Same old shit, tomfoolery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-02
Updated: 2013-01-02
Packaged: 2017-11-23 09:28:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/620619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaitAThousandYears/pseuds/WaitAThousandYears
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Why should hatred get in the way of having a few drinks?<br/>Ze Mole POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Routine Hatred

"Anyone sitting here?"  
Even your voice pisses me off.  
"Non." I grunt unsociably.  
You sit down on the stool and immediately call for a bartender.  
You order a sherry. A fucking sherry. Pussy.  
As always we sit in silence. We're both painfully aware of the consequences should we be seen together by anyone from our respective teams.  
Four beers and three sherries later, and not one word has passed between us. When we're both satisfactorily inebriated we pay for our drinks and leave the dank, dirty bar. It's a disgusting place in the bad side of town, but that's the point. No-one we know would ever come to such a place. Our employers in particular consider themselves above such squalor.  
For criminals, they're ridiculously snobby.  
We walk together through the poverty ridden streets, occasionally shoving aside a vagrant asking us for money. Sympathy is a handicap in our line of work. We've long since rid ourselves of the hindrance.  
A block away from where we part, I'm violently shoved into a dark alleyway. I sigh irritably at the sensation of cold, sharp steel against my throat.  
How fucking cliché.  
"What are you doeeing, Gregoree?" I ask boredom evident in my voice.  
"Why shouldn't I kill you?"  
I roll my eyes.  
"You're one of the opposition's best men. You're the enemy. Killing you would make our lives much, much easier. Why shouldn't I slit your throat open and leave you here to rot?" You sneer.  
"Because eef you keel me you weel have no-one zo get drunk weeth." I explain carefully, as if I were talking to a retarded child. Which is a little unfair, seeing as how, academically anyway, Gregory is probably smarter than I am.  
But all the same, drunken Gregory is even more annoying than sober Gregory. At least the latter doesn't talk so much.  
"Let me down you Eenglish bastard." I hiss.  
"No." You say smugly.  
TWACK.  
"Son of a bitch!" You yell your grip on the knife and me slackening as you reel backwards.  
You drop the knife and clutch at your bloody nose, trying to stop the bleeding.  
"I deed tell you zo let go of me" I say.  
"I fucking hate you, Mole. I really do." and while what you say is true, there's no anger behind your words. You're merely stating a fact.  
"Good. I am zick of people who love me. People who 'ate me are far more interesting." I say, making my way back to the main street.  
You quickly follow me and we walk to the crossroads.  
We know we'll see each other tomorrow night. Same time, same place. Same situation, same outcome.  
We head our separate ways, you with your broken nose, and me with a thin line of blood running across my neck from your knife, without sparing as much as a glance at the other.  
Some things just never change.


End file.
